


Water and Heaven

by rexluscus



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Fix-It, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-25
Updated: 2011-05-25
Packaged: 2017-10-19 18:38:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexluscus/pseuds/rexluscus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James in the Locker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Water and Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> A prologue to a longer story I never wrote. Post-AWE.

James opened his eyes, and saw white sand. It was warming his cheek and stirring with his breath. He righted his head and saw sky, overwhelming in its blank nearness. With his head like this, it was as though nothing existed.

He'd been dreaming about a kitchen. Warm slate under his bum, playing jacks with a child. A flour-covered table where a round woman worked dough, white to the elbows. The smell of wood smoke and heather. He could smell the sea now. Just as familiar, but from a different time, a later page in his memories.

He sat up. And looked. And knew that the book was complete.

* * *

Why were there no others? He'd always thought he'd see his mum and dad, at least. Things he'd lost, or abandoned, or left unfinished—he'd supposed death would tie it all up. Or at least put him past caring. Instead, it seemed that while time had stopped, he had not. And there was nothing to do but stare at the horizon, the one thing in view with a chance of changing. 

He'd spent a better part of his life watching horizons. Waiting for tiny shapes to appear on them. Watching the heavens move in relation to them. Was that it? In death, did one simply repeat for eternity whatever had been the enduring theme of one's life? That had a fine irony. All those souls who spent their lives storing up riches in heaven, caring only for what came after—just to find that death was more of the same.

That had been him, hadn't it? Deferring life. Storing up riches…somewhere. Always working toward something, and when it got close enough, finding nothing but a new thing to work toward. Like the horizon, which never got closer no matter how far you sailed.

He lay back and let the sand and sky press him thin. He could think of no reason to move.

* * *

His life had never been so relaxing. He'd never wasted so much time. He took inventory of his worldly concerns and found they hadn't changed as he'd thought they would. He still worried for people he loved. Still bore the same passionate grudges. He wondered how his reputation was faring postmortem. Did they think him a hero for what he'd done? He didn't regret it. Regret was not really in his nature. But given enough time to reflect on his life, that might change. He didn't look forward to an eternity spent alone with his mind.

After many hours (did they have those here?) it occurred to him that it was pleasant, lying nestled in the embrace of the sand.

* * *

At first he thought it was the effect of looking too directly at the sunset. But as more of the sun disappeared into the sea, he could clearly make out the shape against it. When the sky grew light again, the shape was much closer.

He'd never felt such pure gratitude, such giddy desire to fling himself before whatever power was responsible and give himself into their service. When the ship moored a distance offshore and a longboat was lowered, it was as though he were blinking away the haze of a nightmare—the maid was throwing open the shutters while he cast off damp sheets, limbs weak with relief.

Then he made out the face of the man standing in the bow of the boat, looking for all the world as though Cortez had come to conquer the land of the dead.

Boots splashed into the surf, and the captain strode ahead, leaving his men to haul in the boat. James leaned back on his hands until Captain Barbossa was standing directly over him, his vast hat blocking out the sun like a thunderhead.

"We've need of you, boy," the captain said.

"Your worldly concerns are behind you, I'm afraid," James replied, pleased to be in the position of greater knowledge.

"Oh, we're not dead." Barbossa showed him a mouthful of teeth the color of cement. "We came here by choice. We're gettin' to know these waters pretty well now, as a point of fact. Which means you've need of us, too."

Not companions, then. Rescuers. He hesitated. He'd wanted an end to the boredom, but one generally wasn't meant to come back from the dead, was one? He'd always known he would face death with dignity and acceptance. And who knew? Maybe it would get better. Certainly, accepting a ride back into the fray with Captain Barbossa was as good as a deal with the devil.

"I'm not interested," he said, and almost believed himself.

"Oh, but ya should be." Barbossa gave another one of those horrible grins that rolled the whites of his eyes around like sparrow's eggs. "Ya see, you're not all the way there. You're in between. This ain't everlastin' peace, Commodore, sorry ta say."

"What is it, then?"

"It's Davy Jones's locker, o' course."

"Oh, come on." He waved at the white sand, the bright water. "You don't seriously—"

"Your worst fears, boy. Suffered for eternity."

That sounded familiar. His failures in life, repeated endlessly—hadn't that been his suspicion? Nothing but waiting, staring, hoping, one long breath held until time itself wound down…

He'd go mad.

"What do you need me for?" he asked.

"Does it matter? You'll say yes regardless o' what it is."

"That's not for you to judge." He straightened, feeling a bit of the old naval authority. "What is your task?"

"If you must know, we need ya to serve aboard the  _Dutchman_ , as you were offered the chance to do."

 _Do you fear death?_  the creature had asked. He'd said no. But that was before he'd known what death was… 

"A friend of the both of ours has stolen something I dearly need and vanished into the wide world. The _Dutchman_ 's the only ship as can find him. I need ya ta serve, and to get me that item I so need."

James stared into the mad eyes for a moment before it fell into place. He flopped back into the sand. "You're talking about Jack Sparrow, aren't you?" 

" _Captain_  Jack Sparrow."

All the way to the shores of the dead for this. A vein ticked in James's forehead. He asked the sky, "Does this errand involve harming, thwarting or otherwise inconveniencing  _Captain_  Jack Sparrow?"

"Aye."

He got to his feet and brushed the sand off his breeches. "When can we sail?"

"Not so fast! First, I be needin' a bit of insurance." Barbossa squinted one eye. "If there's one thing o' which I'm certain, it's that ye be a man o' your word. Swear ta me by God, king and country that you'll do me biddin' once you're back in the world of men."

Of the three, only God seemed relevant anymore. But the cares of the world felt much closer now. He was already burning to humiliate and destroy that cursed pirate. Some forces, it seemed, were stronger than death. "I swear by my honor to aid you in your efforts."

"Oh, no." Barbossa grimaced. "No, you must swear to  _succeed_  in my efforts."

"What? How can I promise—"

"Then we'll be leavin' ta find another soul who turned down Jones's offer."

James closed his eyes. No one ever came out the richer from a deal with the devil. He had principles, honor. But when he opened his eyes, they were filled with the flat, empty sea. That was his choice: the devil, or an eternity watching that line between water and heaven. Squinting, hoping, despairing. Madness.

"I swear it," he said, and took the fiendish captain's offered hand. 


End file.
